The Paradise Prophecy

Callahan felt it was justified. Except for the two whiskeys he’d had in the hotel bar, he seemed to have gotten a handle on his drinking-had twice turned down the opportunity to indulge on the plane-and since Callahan didn’t have the help of any local operatives, she figured she might as well put him to work. He wasn’t a pro, but a little reconnaissance mission shouldn’t get him into too much trouble, as long as he stuck to protocol.

The elevator dropped her off on the fourth floor. A sign on the wall indicated that the forensics wing was to her left down a bustling hallway, and she located the autopsy room without much effort.

It was small and busy, five exam tables laid out in a way that made the most economical use of the space allotted, while giving each of the lab techs room to move. Three of them were working right now, cutting into flesh, weighing organs, preparing slides for further examination as they dictated into microphones mounted above each of their tables.

Callahan found a rack of lab coats near the door and slipped one on, clipping her ID badge to the pocket. She went from table to table, nodding hello to the techs, carefully checking the bodies as she progressed. But none of them were Ozan.

There was a window to her right, a room full of lab equipment beyond it. She crossed to the door, stepped inside, and her gaze went immediately to a nearby counter, where the charred remains of a body lay atop a white towel.

Bingo.

Section had been right to be concerned. If these remains were any indication, the case did look as if it were related to the Sao Paulo death. The body was in almost exactly the same state as Gabriela Zuada’s.

Callahan wouldn’t know for sure until she got a look at the actual crime scene, but she doubted this was a coincidence.

There was a camera mounted on a stand next to the towel. One of the remains-a blackened femur-had been laid out on a rectangular platform, waiting to be photographed. Next to this was a computer terminal, showing a photo array, various parts of the body already catalogued and added to the police file.

Callahan reached into a pocket and brought out an SD memory card. Slipping it into a slot in the computer, she initiated a download and waited as the file’s contents ticked off, photo by photo, document by document.

It was about halfway finished when a voice behind her said in Turkish, “Who are you? What are you doing in here?”

Callahan turned with a start and saw a mousy-looking guy in a lab coat glowering at her.

As Batty sipped his tea, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something about the waitress wasn’t quite right, and he knew he was starting to obsess.

Being sober definitely had its downside.

He had no doubt that hundreds, even thousands, of waitresses in this city would stir up the exact same feeling-along with cab drivers, cops, doctors, construction workers, secretaries and everything in between. But that didn’t make it any easier for him.

They were out there in force. Always had been. A battalion of compromised souls, willing to do whatever they were told in the name of their keeper. Yet despite his uneasiness, he knew that obsessing over it wouldn’t do him a lick of good.

Knowing that this waitress was only a stone’s throw from the auction house, however, led him to believe that she might be involved in a little gathering and providing of her own. And if that was true, she could well be directly connected to whatever dark entity had attacked and killed Ozan. And Gabriela Zuada.

And Rebecca.

Finishing up his tea, he set the glass on its saucer, then rose and dropped a few coins on the table.

Enough stalling. Time to do what he came here for.

Crossing the street, he moved past the polis cars and milling cops and headed up the steps to the auction house entrance. The glass doors slid open as he approached, and the moment he stepped inside he felt it-

– The lingering residue of death.

There was a reception desk out front, a smartly dressed but somber-looking woman sitting behind it, undoubtedly still feeling the sting of their loss.

To her right was the exhibition room, the glass cases along its walls holding various antiques, artifacts and ancient statuary. Oil paintings hung above them in ornate frames-Baroque, Byzantine, High Renaissance. Heavenly landscapes full of winged cherubs stood in stark contrast to the more violent works, including one that depicted the beheading of Holofernes by the widow Judith.

The sight of her sword cutting into his neck made Batty shudder.

To his left was a set of open double doors, leading to the auction room itself, where several rows of chairs faced a podium and display table. Farther left was an elevator, a uniformed security guard standing next to it, and beyond him was a carpeted stairwell that led into the bowels of the building, another guard blocking passage to it.

Batty glanced at the directory on the wall between them. Also written in Turkish and English, it indicated that the building’s offices and archives were located down those stairs.

According to Callahan’s intelligence brief, this was where Ozan’s body had been discovered, in a seldom-used archive room. But Batty didn’t need a sign to tell him this. He could feel it rolling up toward him from that stairwell, a relentless, screaming brutality that was difficult to ignore.

He doubted there were any windows or other modes of entry down there, and if these guards stayed in place throughout the night, there was no way Callahan would ever get past them.

One of them was looking at him now. Batty smiled, nodded to him, then crossed to the exhibition room and pretended to browse, surreptitiously scanning the rest of the lobby.

Restrooms and pay phones directly across from the stairs. Fire extinguishers and pull alarms strategically placed along the walls. A tinted glass window next to a door marked GUVENLIK-SECURITY.

He was contemplating the futility of his task when the elevator doors slid open and several men stepped out: plainclothes cops, along with three crime-scene technicians carrying their gear in plastic toolboxes.

They all looked weary, which meant that they had worked through the night and most of the day. And if the evidence they’d gathered was as sparse as it had been in Sao Paulo, they had a baffling mystery to solve.

Batty shook his head morosely.

They had no idea what they were dealing with here.

And he couldn’t help but envy them.

I asked you a question,” Lab Coat said. “What are you doing in here?”

Callahan feigned irritation, returning her attention to what was left of Ozan’s body. “What does it look like I’m doing?” she said in Turkish. “I’m cataloging the victim’s remains.”

“I thought Leila was handling that?”

She fiddled with the camera. “Leila had an errand to run and asked me to cover for her.”

“But I just saw her going into the washroom.”

Callahan looked up sharply. “So are you the one who’s been stalking her?”

He jerked his head back. “What?”

“She told me somebody from the lab has been harassing her. She’s on her way to personnel right now.”

He looked aghast. “And you think it’s me?”

Callahan shrugged. “I wouldn’t know, I just started here-where are Ozan’s personal effects?”

He blinked at her, confused by the sudden change of subject.

“His personal effects,” she said impatiently. “Where are they?”

“I . . . I’m not sure,” Lab Coat sputtered. “Already in storage, I suppose. It’s not my case.”

“Then why are you wasting my time?”

His mouth dropped open as if he were about to say something more, but then he closed it again, shaking his head in dismay as he walked away.

Callahan let out a breath. She had a feeling he’d be back soon.